The waiting room air was thick with the scent of cheap coffee and desperate ambition.
Luna was holding a crumpled script so tightly that her fingertips turned white.
Late. It was very late.
She smiled at the other candidates.
Their perfectly tailored suits and polished shoes glistened under the harsh lights, and the soft rustle of their clothing filled the air.
Each radiated an aura of practiced nonchalance that screamed "seasoned professional." A kind-faced man with a mop of unruly brown hair, nametag called 'Jack,' shifted in his seat with a soft creak, offering her the space beside him.
"Rough morning?" he murmured, a hint of sympathy in his eyes, his voice a gentle murmur in the otherwise hushed room.
Luna felt there was something different in her mind.
She suddenly got Jack's internal monologue: Poor kid, probably fresh off the bus.
She was confused as well as excited.
She didn't know why and how she had the superpower.
She was excited that she was different from other people.
A flicker of annoyance then resolves, hardening Luna's gaze.
The harsh light made her eyes sparkle with determination.
She plastered on her brightest smile.
"You have no idea," she whispered back, the sincerity hitting Jack like a truckload of puppies.
His internal monologue was swift 180: Wow, she's…nice. Maybe she does have a shot.
The audition room was a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the waiting area.
A single spotlight illuminated a small, raised platform like a solitary island in a sea of darkness.
Peterson, the director, a man whose reputation preceded him like a thunderclap, sat hunched over the table.
His pen scratching on paper echoed in the silence, and his face was a mask of weary cynicism.
As Luna stepped onto the platform, the wooden boards creaked under her feet.
A sudden, sharp pain exploded at the back of her head, like a bolt of lightning striking.
A rogue piece of lighting equipment had decided to stage its dramatic exit, landing squarely on her skull with a sickening thud.
Stars burst behind her eyelids, and she could feel the warm trickle of blood on her neck.
Then, something…shifted.
When her vision cleared, the world felt…different.
Sharper.
Louder.
The soft hum of the equipment in the room became a deafening roar.
Peterson's thoughts, a jumbled mess of anxieties and expectations, echoed in her mind: Need…vulnerability.
Fragile strength.
Where is it?
He hadn't even uttered a word, yet Luna knew exactly what he wanted.
She launched into her lines, channeling a raw vulnerability she hadn't known she possessed.
The words flowed from her lips like a river in flood, and she could feel the character's emotions coursing through her veins.
Tears pricked at her eyes, her voice trembling with a delicate strength that filled the room.
Peterson leaned forward, his cynical mask cracking, replaced by something akin to…interest?
Intriguing…unexpected.
She's…good.
From the sidelines, Vivian, a vision in scarlet, observed Luna with narrowed eyes.
Her internal monologue was a venomous hiss: That little nobody.
Where did that performance come from?
Vivian prided herself on her ability to read a room and anticipate Peterson's every whim.
But Luna's sudden transformation threw her.
It was…unnatural.
The audition ended, the spell unbroken.
Luna walked out in a daze, the world now a symphony of unspoken thoughts.
The cacophony was overwhelming, a torrent of insecurities, desires, and petty grievances.
She focused on a random passerby: I wish I'd gotten that donut.
Another: My shoes are killing me.
It was exhilarating, terrifying, and utterly addictive.
On her way home, Luna's mind was a whirlwind.
She replayed the audition in her head, the thrill of the performance still coursing through her veins.
The city streets were alive with the sounds of traffic and the chatter of people, but the newfound power consumed her thoughts.
Then, she arrived at her apartment.
The hallway was dimly lit, and the faint smell of musty carpet filled her nostrils.
Later, the apartment seemed to shrink around her.
The silence, broken only by the refrigerator's hum, was deafening.
Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of leaves outside her window, felt amplified, charged with a nervous energy.
She stood before the cracked mirror, a relic from her grandmother, practicing her award-winning smile (okay, future award-winning smile).
Her reflection stared back, a kaleidoscope of emotions swirling in her eyes – fear, excitement, a touch of manic glee.
The smile felt brittle, forced.
"I need to get a grip," she muttered, echoing in the stillness.
Suddenly, a scream tore through the night.
A bloodcurdling, primal shriek that sent ice water flooding her veins.
It came from downstairs.
Luna's newfound ability kicked into overdrive.
A jumbled mess of slurred thoughts, reeking of cheap beer, and misplaced rage flooded her mind: Where is she…gotta…show her… Followed by the distinct sound of a door being rattled violently.
Her apartment door.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
Adrenaline surged, sharpening her senses.
The drunkard's thoughts were a chaotic roadmap of his intentions, a twisted GPS leading him straight to her.
Stupid lock…gonna break… He fumbled with the doorknob, his frustration escalating.
Luna's mind raced, calculating, strategizing.
Fight or flight?
Neither.
She chose option C: improvise.
She grabbed a heavy ceramic vase, a tacky souvenir from a forgotten vacation.
Its garish floral pattern stood out like a neon sign in the dim light, and now it was strangely comforting.
She gripped it like a lifeline, her knuckles white, her heart a drum against her ribs.
The doorknob jiggled violently, the wood splintering with a sharp cracking sound.
She could practically smell the stale beer on his breath, a pungent odor that made her gag.
He braced himself to kick the door down.
Now, a voice whispered in her head, cool and calm amidst the chaos.
Just as his foot connected with the wood, Luna swung the vase.
A sickening thud echoed through the apartment, and a groan morphed into a whimper.
The vase shattered, scattering ceramic shards across the floor like confetti celebrating a macabre victory.
The drunkard crumpled to the ground, clutching his…well, let's say it wasn't his head.
Luna quickly dialed 911, her voice surprisingly steady.
A strange sense of calm washed over her as the sirens wailed in the distance.
The fear hadn't dissipated entirely but mingled with something else.
A thrill.
A sense of power.
She had faced a real threat, a tangible danger, and emerged victorious.
Her power wasn't just a parlor trick; it was a weapon.
A shield.
A key.
A key to what, she wasn't sure yet.
But she was damn well going to find out.
Standing amidst the wreckage of the broken vase and the lingering stench of fear and cheap beer, Luna felt a flicker of a smile touch her lips.
"Brenda," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the approaching sirens, "you just gave me a taste of what I can do." She reached for her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen.
"And Vivian…" she paused, a glint of steel in her eyes.
"You haven't seen anything yet." The phone buzzed.
An unknown number.